Page 55 of Cinderella and the Daddy
"I don't like this," Viktor mutters in Russian. "Smells like a setup."
He's right. Everything about this screams trap. The anonymous tip about Drew being delivered here. The insistence on this specific location. The convenient fog that cuts visibility to thirty feet.
But I'm here anyway, because they wrote Cindy's name in a dead man's blood. Because they know exactly how to make me dance to their tune.
"Stay sharp," I order. "First sign of trouble, we're gone."
Mark snorts. "We're already neck-deep in trouble, boss."
True. The question is whether we're walking into an ambush or something worse—a distraction.
"Movement," Viktor reports through my earpiece. "Single individual, approaching from the south."
I adjust my position behind a shipping container, weapon ready, every sense on high alert. But as the figure comes into view, I realize we're not dealing with Charles or Drew.
It's a homeless man, clearly strung out. He’s rifling through the trash with the unsteady gait of someone deep in withdrawal. He stops about fifty feet from our position and sets something down on the concrete. It’s a small package wrapped in brown paper.
Then he walks away, disappearing into the maze of containers as quickly as he appeared.
"Sir?" Viktor's voice crackles through the comm.
"Hold position." I study the package looking for any sign of movement. I looked for any indication that it might be booby-trapped. But it sits there innocently, just brown paper and tape in the pale moonlight.
After ten minutes of watching, I give the all-clear and approach carefully. I open the bag and find a burner phone wrapped in newspaper.
I power it on, and immediately the screen fills with video. Security footage, crystal clear and perfectly framed. It takes me a moment to recognize what I'm looking at, and when I do, ice water floods my veins.
Our kitchen. Shot from an angle that shouldn't be possible unless someone had access to the compound's interior. I watch myself moving through the frame, making coffee, and checking reports. Then Leo appears.
I realize the camera is moving. The view is odd.
The timestamp shows this was recorded yesterday. While the compound was on lockdown. While my security teams were sweeping every inch of the property for threats.
Someone has been watching us from inside our own walls.
Not just watching.
They’re inside my home.
I'm moving before the video ends, barking orders to my men as we race back to the cars.
I replay the video again, studying every angle, every shadow. The perspective is wrong—too low for a ceiling mount, too steady for a hidden body cam. Then I see it: the slight fish-eye distortion at the edges, the way the view shifts almost imperceptibly when someone moves past.
It's not a fixed camera. It's mobile. Personal.
My blood turns to ice as understanding dawns. There's only one item in that kitchen that moves through the space at exactly the height that would capture these precise angles. Something Cindy wears every day, never removes, and treats as sacred.
The necklace.
The fucking necklace I gave her to replace the one I destroyed. Someone got to it before I did. Modified it. Which means they've been watching everything—every conversation, every intimate moment, every vulnerability she's shown me.
They've seen her with Leo. They know his routines, his habits, which rooms he considers safe.
I'm moving before the thought completes, my legs carrying me through the compound on autopilot. I check Leo's room first—the boy sleeps soundly, one arm flung over his stuffed tiger. The relief is sharp but temporary. They haven't taken him because they don't need to. They have something better: complete surveillance of our lives.
My heart stills when I see him sleeping soundly.
I walk down the hall to my bedroom. The bathroom light is on. I can hear the shower running.
